“Tetchov!” began Tchubikov.  “In 1879 you were convicted of theft and condemned to a term of imprisonment.  In 1882 you were condemned for theft a second time, and a second time sent to prison . . .  We know all about it. . . .”

A look of surprise came up into Nikolashka’s face.  The examining magistrate’s omniscience amazed him, but soon wonder was replaced by an expression of extreme distress.  He broke into sobs, and asked leave to go to wash, and calm himself.  He was led out.

“Bring in Psyekov!” said the examining magistrate.

Psyekov was led in.  The young man’s face had greatly changed during those twelve days.  He was thin, pale, and wasted.  There was a look of apathy in his eyes.

“Sit down, Psyekov,” said Tchubikov.  “I hope that to-day you will be sensible and not persist in lying as on other occasions.  All this time you have denied your participation in the murder of Klyauzov, in spite of the mass of evidence against you.  It is senseless.  Confession is some mitigation of guilt.  To-day I am talking to you for the last time.  If you don’t confess to-day, to-morrow it will be too late.  Come, tell us. . . .”

“I know nothing, and I don’t know your evidence,” whispered Psyekov.

“That’s useless!  Well then, allow me to tell you how it happened.  On Saturday evening, you were sitting in Klyauzov’s bedroom drinking vodka and beer with him.” (Dyukovsky riveted his eyes on Psyekov’s face, and did not remove them during the whole monologue.) “Nikolay was waiting upon you.  Between twelve and one Mark Ivanitch told you he wanted to go to bed.  He always did go to bed at that time.  While he was taking off his boots and giving you some instructions regarding the estate, Nikolay and you at a given signal seized your intoxicated master and flung him back upon the bed.  One of you sat on his feet, the other on his head.  At that moment the lady, you know who, in a black dress, who had arranged with you beforehand the part she would take in the crime, came in from the passage.  She picked up the pillow, and proceeded to smother him with it.  During the struggle, the light went out.  The woman took a box of Swedish matches out of her pocket and lighted the candle.  Isn’t that right?  I see from your face that what I say is true.  Well, to proceed. . . .  Having smothered him, and being convinced that he had ceased to breathe, Nikolay and you dragged him out of window and put him down near the burdocks.  Afraid that he might regain consciousness, you struck him with something sharp.  Then you carried him, and laid him for some time under a lilac bush.  After resting and considering a little, you carried him . . . lifted him over the hurdle. . . .  Then went along the road. . .  Then comes the dam; near the dam you were frightened by a peasant.  But what is the matter with you?”

Psyekov, white as a sheet, got up, staggering.

“I am suffocating!” he said.  “Very well. . . .  So be it. . . .  Only I must go. . . .  Please.”